


Another Year Lost

by Syls Darkplace (sylsdarkplace)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-23
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2018-01-13 11:05:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1223962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylsdarkplace/pseuds/Syls%20Darkplace





	Another Year Lost

 

  
**Pairings:** Sam/Dean, Sam/Amelia

**Warnings:**  
Spoilers through the end of Season 8, hints of Wincest, hurt!Sam.

**Summary:**   
Dean watches over his brother back at the bunker after stopping him from completing the trials in 8.23.

**Word count:**   
~7K

**Author’s note:**   
This is loosely a sequel to [Well and Truly](http://archiveofourown.org/works/886769/chapters/1709500), but can be read alone. I wrote this in during hiatus pre-season nine (can’t remember why it didn’t get posted), and it’s not how things go down in “I Think I’m Going to Like It Here,” but it was my way of trying to make sense of what happened to Sam while Dean was in purgatory. I’d like to thank my betas [**anniespinkhouse** ](http://anniespinkhouse.livejournal.com/)and [**meus_venator** ](http://meus-venator.livejournal.com/), who also did the lovely art. All mistakes are my own.

  
Dean’s eyes were raw and scratchy. He lifted his head, and his calloused fingers went to the back of his neck and rubbed the stiff muscles. He shifted in the chair he’d barely left for days. Sam was lying there on Dean’s memory foam mattress, wrapped in Dean’s blankets. He’d thought about taking Sam to his own room, but the thought of leaving his little brother in that monk’s cell didn’t feel right.

It was hard to imagine how Sam could look worse than he had at the chapel, but he was more gaunt and the circles under his eyes darker. Dean felt helpless. He’d put cool compresses on his brother’s head and slipped tiny slivers of ice between his slack lips. Still, the fever burned.

It took all Dean’s strength to get Sam from the Impala into the bunker. Sam had been nearly unconscious by the time he’d landed on Dean’s bed. Dean had stripped him and cleaned him up. The whole time Sam had muttered and rambled a long string of apologies that had Dean angry and nearly in tears.

In retrospect, it all made sense – Sam’s apparent jealousy and irrational dislike of Benny had been fueled by guilt and self-recrimination. Sam had been as mad at himself as he had at Dean who wasn’t faultless in all this, he knew that. He’d kept secrets from Sam. His own guilt had clouded his judgment.

“I’m sorry, Dee,” Sam had whispered. Those had been his last words in all those days. Dean saw in his mind not this man who now towered over him, but a little boy who’d wandered off while playing. Sam couldn’t have been more than six, and they were squatting in an old single-wide trailer John had found in rural Missouri. His dad had gone to town for some supplies, and Dean had left Sam to play in the overgrown yard with a warning to watch out for snakes while he made sandwiches. When he’d leaned out the door to call him, Sam wasn’t there.

He’d gone outside and called again, but there was no answer. He started looking in an ever widening circle, calling and shouting. At first, he was afraid of what his dad would say and do if he got back and Dean hadn’t found Sam, but as the minutes passed without finding his brother, a far greater fear gripped him. Sammy could be hurt or worse. Dean had seen garter snakes, but there could be rattlers or copperheads. Sammy loved to climb trees. He could have fallen. Suddenly, Dean was imagining stumbling across his little brother’s broken body, still and lifeless.

Then, he had come up over a ridge, and there was Sammy up to his knees in a bright, gurgling stream at the bottom of a hollow. The breath left Dean’s lungs in a rush and returned in something close to a sob.

“Sammy!” he yelled.

Sam turned with a grin on his face and a frog in his hands. His smile faded and the frog plopped to the stream forgotten. Sam’s eyes went wide as Dean bounded down the hillside and grabbed him by the shoulders.

“I’ve been yelling for you,” he shouted. “Why didn’t you answer me?!” Sam was solid and warm under his hands as he shook him. “What’s wrong with you?! Why’d you ignore me?! Answer me!”

“I, I didn’t hear ...” Sam could barely get the words out for the way Dean was crushing him to his chest. Sammy sniffled against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Dee.”

They had gotten back to the trailer before John came back, and neither of them mentioned it to him. It was between just them as so many things would come to be. Somewhere along the line, Dean realized with sudden clarity, they’d started keeping things from one another. That had been where they’d gone wrong.

Dean rubbed his bleary eyes wishing that Sam would just open his and let him know that he was still with him. Sam shifted suddenly. He briefly raised a hand before letting it fall back to the bed. Dean leaned forward, hope rising in his chest. It was the most movement Sam had made in days. His head turned, and he snuffled into the pillow. Dean couldn’t help but smile at the familiarity of the action. Sam’s eyes opened and his gaze fell on the photo of their mom that was on the nightstand. The hazel gaze shifted slowly up and met Dean’s.

 

 

  
Leaving the lab and getting back to the cabin was like a bad dream for Sam. The Impala had been drivable despite Meg launching it through the sign at Sucrocorp. The windows were broken and bullet holes peppered it inside and out, but Dean’s baby had seen worse. Sam vowed to fix her up for Dean. When Dean got back, he’d see that Sam had taken good care of her.

Dean was gone. Again. They’d just been working their way back to each other, and Sam was alone again. Dean, Cas, Meg, Kevin, Crowley, Dick ... everyone, friends and enemies alike, gone. Not that any of them mattered but Dean. Anyone else would be incidental, a means to an end, a means to finding Dean, and there was no one. No one.

He paced the cabin and tried to think of where to look, how to find him. What if he was dead this time? Really gone ... passed on, at peace, beyond the veil. “No, no, no, no,” Sam muttered.

The place smelled of stale beer and old trash. He pulled the bag from the can. Beer bottles clinked together. Limp lettuce leaves and stale bread crust stuck to them. Cas and his fucking organic ham sandwiches. He tied off the trash bag and carried it out. Sunshine hit him like a slap in the face. He tossed the trash into the outside can and retreated to the dim interior of the cabin.

“Calm down and think,” he said aloud. He ran his fingers back through his hair. “Resources. Someone.”

He pulled his cellphone out and ran through the contact list. _Jodie_. She’d helped him when Dean disappeared with Chronos. She still had some of Bobby’s books. His thumb hovered over her name. Jodie still grieved Bobby. Sam squeezed his eyes shut. No. He wouldn’t do that to her. He wouldn’t tell her that he’d let something happen to Dean too.

Garth. He sighed. No. Garth knew less than he did and had fewer resources. He’d only get Garth killed too. That’s what he did. He let people down, and he got them killed.

He thought of Gabriel, the months of torture the angel had put him through, and the lengths he’d been willing to go to get Dean back. From all that, he’d learned nothing. Instead, he’d fallen into Ruby’s manipulative hands with ease. He’d do anything, sacrifice anyone for Dean.

He grabbed an empty box off the shelf in the closet and tossed the phone into it. He gathered the other dummy phones and threw them in as well. He had to stop. Just stop. He wasn’t to be trusted. He needed to think. Think.

He had to find Dean, but first he needed to take a breath and think about how to approach the problem – no demons, no deals, no taking anyone down with him. Wherever Dean was, he’d save him or join him. Sam just needed time think.

So he worked on the Impala, and while his hands labored his mind sifted through memories of green eyes fixed on his, calloused hands gripping him, hot, wet mouth devouring his. The warm, thick scent of leather and gun oil and whiskey surrounded him, and he realized it was coming from the bullet-riddled seat cover he was replacing. He cracked. A feral cry erupted from his throat before he could swallow it back. He curled into the seat and sobbed, with torn vinyl pressed to his face. A howl ripped from his throat like demon smoke.

~~~

The miles had rolled by, day after day, week after week. He’d hustled pool in Ely, Nevada and done some odd jobs for a retiree in Flagstaff – patched the roof, changed the oil in her car, cleaned the pool. Mindless occupations kept his hands busy, but as sunlight reflected off the blue water of the pool, his mind drifted again and again, and he saw droplets clinging to thick lashes over sparkling green eyes, and heard the clear, joyous laughter of a boy, his brother, his hero. He could almost taste the chlorine on his lips and feel the slick freckled skin under his hands.

It was at an old Travel Lodge outside Davenport, Iowa. Sam was ten, and John had left them alone again. The parking lot at the new Holiday Inn across the road was full of cars. It had an indoor pool and complimentary breakfast and didn’t much resemble the dilapidated motel their father had chosen across the road. But the boys didn’t complain about the damp rooms at the Travel Lodge that smelled of stale cigarette smoke because the pool was clean and cool and exclusively Winchester territory. It was the private oasis of two boys who reveled in the monster-free sunshine and freedom without the watchful eye of their Marine father. Sam turned nut brown, and Dean’s freckles darkened, his nose peeled, and his grin outshone the sun. The pool seemed like an ocean. They were pirates and pearl divers and ordinary, carefree boys.

Sam jerked himself back to reality with the memory of Dean’s laughter ringing in his head. He skimmed another water bug from the pool and tipped it over the fence. He was wearing jeans and old sneakers he’d picked up at Goodwill. He leaned the skimmer against the fence and retrieved the t-shirt he’d hung there.

“That looks wonderful,” the woman said. “Hasn’t looked that good in years.”

“Thanks,” he said as he turned.

She was wearing a black one-piece suit, cut almost to her waist and big Jackie O sunglasses. She had a plate of sandwiches in one hand and a pitcher of something pale green – Margaritas, he’d guess – in the other. He pulled the t-shirt on over his head.

“Don’t be bashful,” she said. “Come have a sandwich.”

“I really need to hit the road,” he replied.

Her mouth pulled into an exaggerated pout. “You have to at least have something to eat.”

He wolfed down a sandwich and a Coke before taking his pay in cash and politely ignoring her offer of a bed for the night. He’d driven as far as Albuquerque and drunk himself to sleep at a Best Western. He’d rolled from bed with a headache and full bladder. A shower hadn’t dispelled the grimy feeling that seemed to cling to him all the time now.

That was hours ago. He’d stopped once for gas in Artesia. He’d taken a piss and gotten a Mountain Dew and a hotdog. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a hotdog, probably when Dean would make beans and weenies when they were kids. He gotten so sick of them, he’d sworn off them. It wasn’t Dean’s fault they’d eaten so much crap growing up. He did the best he could on the limited funds Dad gave him, but it had left Sam with a hunger for real food – fresh vegetables and fruit, the kind of food that you couldn’t buy at the gas station mini-mart. He tossed half the dog in the trash before he got back in the Impala and washed the taste from his mouth with the sickly sweet soda.

Hours later, West Texas spread around him, dry and flat and barren. His eyes were bleary and his head buzzed with recrimination. His stomach felt as though it was digesting itself. He cranked up some horrible modern country station while pseudo-rock guitar competed with a twangy lead vocalist. When he hit the chorus, the singer sounded like a banshee being gutted. Sam reached over and turned the radio off.

The windows were down, and the air was like a blast furnace blowing in as he rolled into the outskirts of a small town. Low ranch houses surrounded by sparse lawns lined the street. The trees looked stunted and pale.

And there was a dog. He didn’t see it but for a flash in the corner of his eye. He locked up the brakes on the big, old Chevy to the screech of tires and the smell burning rubber. He heard the thump and yip, saw the body roll away in the rearview mirror. He threw the car in park and jumped out. He had the adrenaline fueled high of a hunt without his usually clarity of mind.

“No,” he said as he ran up to the animal that lay at the side of the road. “No, no, no.”  The dog raised its head, and moved with uncoordinated lurches. It struggled to rise, but fell back against the hot asphalt. Its eyes rolled showing white. “It’s okay, it’s okay. Just ... stay!”

He wrapped the dog in an old blanket they kept in the backseat. The animal was bloody but breathing. “Oh God,” he said. “Hang on. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Everything seemed out of sync. Time had stretched and contracted. The sun was dropping behind the water tower painted like a frog, and the streets seemed deserted but for a few cars surrounding the Dairy Queen. Then, he saw a sign that read River Bluff Veterinary Hospital. The lights were on inside.

“Help. I need help. The dog needs help,” he yelled as he entered. Everyone seemed so calm. How can they be calm when a life is stake? What kind of people are they? Wasn’t it their job to save injured animals?

They threw him out of the exam room, and he paced, eyes shifting to the door periodically. The receptionist, Roberta according to her name tag, came out and gave him a sour look, so he didn’t bother asking if there was any news. He sat down and fidgeted.

Roberta and the vet had both looked at him like he was a murderer. Well, that’s fair enough, he is a murderer, but hitting the dog was an accident. He prayed the dog wasn’t hurt badly. He couldn’t have this on him too. He rubbed his hands over his face and dropped them into his lap. Roberta side eyed him, and he looked away.

The door to the exam room opened and the vet stepped out. “He's sustained some serious internal bleeding” she said. “There's at least two leg fractures that I can see right now. But with some TLC, he should pull through for you.”

He sighed. “Thanks, Doctor.”  He started to turn away.

“You're gonna take the dog?” she said. 

He stopped and looked at her in disbelief. “Look, I-I would. He's... not mine.”

“He's not anybody's,” she said, and he wondered how she could know that.

“I-I spend a lot of the time on the road,” he said. He’d always wanted a dog. There was Bones in Flagstaff all those years ago. Flagstaff. Shouldn’t have gone there. Should have taken a left in Albuquerque, Bugs Bunny mocked in his head. He stifled the urge to giggle. Bones was the closest he’d come to having a dog. His dad hadn’t been wrong after all. Their lifestyle wasn’t conducive to dog ownership.

“Don't you think you're responsible?” she asked. He was shocked at her accusatory tone.

“Why do you think I brought him here?” he asked.

“Roberta, could you hand this man his trophy on his way out, please?” she said.

He got it then. It was about the money. Someone had to pay for the vet bill or she had to absorb the cost.

She continued, “Well, maybe if you were such an upstanding guy, you wouldn't have hit him in the first place?”

Maybe, she’s right, he thought. It’s him. This is what he does. He hurts people, even innocent animals. “Fine. I'll take him.”

“There's my hero,” she said. The words were sharper than any knife.

~~~

So he’d settled in at the motel taking care of Dog and doing maintenance in exchange for a room and a little cash on the side. The family that owned the place was nice. The dad was getting cancer treatment and was unable to work. There were always vacancies so giving Sam a free room wasn’t costing them anything, and they were grateful for his help.

He felt as though he was doing them an honest favor, and there was something therapeutic about fixing things with his hands. It was the kind of work that Dean had always been good at. Maybe he hadn’t appreciated that the way he should have. He couldn’t count the number of times that Dean had fixed an air conditioner or bathroom fan or a drain in some rundown motel. He realized that he’d learned a lot about the workings of small motors and plumbing just from watching his brother. He felt satisfaction every time one whirred to life.

He soon learned that the vet, Dr. Amelia Richardson, was living there too. Their next encounter wasn’t any friendlier than the first. He was doing his job, fixing a sink that turned out to be in her room, which was littered with beer bottles and Margarita glasses. It turned out the garbage disposal was jammed with lime rinds and the motor burned up.

She freaked out when she came in and found him there. She practically accused him of stalking her. He’d been accused of worse. When he learned she’d been there three months, he wondered why a veterinarian was living like a drifter. Sam had had a lot of time and reasons to think about motels in his life.

“A motel is not actually part of the town that it's in,” he informed her. “It's not part of anywhere.”

“Well, I haven't found a place yet,” she said, defensively. He raised his brows at that, and she huffed. “Why am I explaining myself to you? You're a drifter or a handyman.”

Something didn’t add up about this woman, but she clearly didn’t like him. He left.

The next time he saw her, it was because Dog, soon to be Riot, ran into her room, and Sam hadn’t much choice but go after him. Despite her hostility, he couldn’t help but think she wasn’t too scared of him and maybe wanted company since she left her door wide open.

That encounter didn’t start out any better than the first. She pretty much accused him of being a serial killer, which again wasn’t completely inaccurate. She was sort of perceptive, but then if she really thought he was a serial killer why was she there confronting him instead of running for help.

Up until then, she’d controlled every conversation they’d had. She’d been sarcastic and abrasive, but he suspected those were stones in her defensive wall. Something clicked for him. He sat down. “You have no idea where you're going, either, do you?”

For the first time, she looked uncertain. “No. Not really,” she said.

“And that's because you have no one,” he said. “I mean, at all, right? I mean, that's why you're... here, in this place.”

“I used to – have someone, I mean,” she said. “But that's over now. It's gone. You know what that's like, don't you?”

He learned that in a way it wasn’t true. She did have her dad, but in the most important way, they were alike. Had his dad been alive, it wouldn’t have changed how he felt about losing Dean. He guessed she felt the same about losing her husband. Her father couldn’t make up for that.

They talked and they drank and they ended up in bed. He wasn’t sure how or why. She needed him, he thought. It felt expected, if not right. It wasn’t passion or lust. It was a defiance of death; a declaration of life and little more.

“It's been a long time since I let myself go like that,” she said afterward. Her breath was warm on his skin.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he said. How long had it been? Ruby. That was the last time he’d tried to lose himself in the smell and feel of a woman to forget Dean. It hadn’t worked. He’d only dug himself a deeper hole, but Amelia wasn’t a demon. She was a woman, hurt and alone like him.

“You asked me if I lost someone,” she whispered. “I did. My husband. He died in Afghanistan eight months ago.”

“That must have been, um... I... I can't imagine,” he said and wondered what she would think if he told her the truth.

It felt as though she and her husband had been together forever, she said, and then Don had just up and joined the military. He’d written a couple of times and then there was the knock on the door. Missing and presumed dead. Those four words echoed in Sam’s mind.

If he thought he and Amelia had made some kind of connection, he realized he was wrong the next morning. She was as hostile and defensive as ever, but then he hadn’t been honest, had he?

So that night he went to her room. She was as antagonistic as she’d been that morning. Some crap about him pitying her. Whatever.

“Look,” he said before she could slam the door in his face, “I lost my brother, Dean, a few months ago. It felt like my world imploded and came raining down on me, and ... I ran. Just like you.”

It was the truth, just not all of it. He knew that no matter what happened between them, there would always be a part of him that he kept hidden, but he told her about Dean, sort of, and she told him about Don.

They drank – talking, watching TV, reading, having dinner. They had a bar, a watering hole where they were regulars. He drank as he had before he met her, more than he ever had before his brother disappeared. She was smart, caustic, observant. They were friends, he supposed. Moving in together seemed … inevitable. Like two shipwreck survivors, they clung to the same bit of drift wood rather than separate. He didn’t romanticize it and neither did she. This wasn’t true love. This was survival, staying afloat, nothing more.

Amelia suggested getting a house. She had the money, and there was no sense living in separate motel rooms. They weren’t alone anymore. They weren’t drifters. But he couldn’t help thinking about Jess – the last time he lived with a woman. He’d loved her. He had. She was dead because of him. And Mom. And Dean. All those deaths were on his head. He quashed a moment of panic that told him to get into the Impala and drive. He’d saved Riot. He and Amelia could save each other maybe.

“He said he'd be here by five,” Amelia said. Her dad was coming to dinner. They’d stocked up on beer, and Amelia was cooking.

He got up from the sofa where he’d been unpacking books and went to her. “Uh, just, deep breath,” he said. “It's gonna be okay.” He did his best to make his smile reassuring. 

“I know. It's just this house, you – he's gonna think we're moving too fast. Are we moving too fast?” she asked.

He’d spent a lifetime learning to say the right thing. He knew all the platitudes. “We're making up for lost time,” he said. 

Some might call her dad a straight shooter. Sam would call him an asshole, but then he had thought that Amelia was a just judgmental and abrasive at first. Maybe Stan had his reasons. He lost a wife once after all. People create walls, defensive positions from which to guard their hearts.

Sam got them beers, and he sat down at the table with Stan. The man’s gaze was a little too sharp. Sam felt himself squirm under it.

“Soup’s on … and semi-edible,” Amelia said as she set a large serving bowl on the table. Sam’s smile faltered when he saw the contents – spaghetti and sliced hotdogs. He felt queasy. 

“Dad was in the army,” Amelia said, “so we moved around a lot when I was a kid. Having spaghetti and hot dogs our first night in a new house was sort of a tradition.” She spooned some onto Stan’s plate and then Sam’s.

“All right,” Sam said trying to recover his composure. “Got it. Uh, my father was in the Marines.” Don’s sudden and inexplicable enlistment suddenly made more sense.

“Jarhead, huh?” Stan asked. He took a swig of beer.

“That's right. Second battalion, First Marines, Echo company,” Sam said with sudden and surprising sense of pride at his father.

“I always thought they were a little puffed up, myself,” Stan said. “But, hey, what do I know? I'm just an old grunt.”

Sam tried to keep his expression neutral. Asshole, he thought.

“So, Ame tells me you never served,” Stan said as he twirled spaghetti onto his fork.

“No.”

“See, I find that hard to believe, 'cause I got to say, Sam, you got the look.”

“The look?” he asked, but he thought he knew. He’d seen the look. He was just surprised at being called on it. Most people didn’t see through him.

“The one a lot of guys get after they've been through the meat grinder – the one that lets you know they've seen a lot of crap they can't forget. The second their feet hit solid ground, they start running, and they don't stop – not till they find something to hold on to.”

Stan was a perceptive asshole, and Sam wondered what kind of meat grinder he put Don through.

“You think that's what I'm doing here? Just holding on?” Sam asked because questions were the best way to deflect questions. Sam had been playing these verbal games with authority figures his whole life.

“I think the two of you are holding on to each other, yeah,” he said as he eyed Sam. “Cause I know she's scared. After what happened to Don, I don't blame her for taking off. Needing to run away and hide – I know why she did it. The question is – what are _you_ running from, Sam?”

He didn’t answer. Not then. Not till later. Fuck Stan. Sam hadn’t felt so empty, so in need of the road since he’d met her. He wasn’t stupid. He knew that playing house with her was like papering over a gaping hole in the drywall. It looked nice but had no substance. One firm bump, and it tears right through.

Sam ran dish water as Amelia and Stan cleaned off the table.

“Look, I am trying to help,” Stan said to Amelia, but Sam can’t help but overhear. “Boy, I'll tell you, if Don could see you...”

“Don't. Just don't,” Amelia hissed.

Sam watched them for a moment as they continued to argue about whether she and Sam should be together. He turned back to the sink and plunged his hands into the hot water.

“Sam is a mess,” Stan said.

_“I'm_ a mess,” she replied. “But when I'm with Sam, I'm happy, Dad. And I haven't been happy in a really long time. So please, just... let us be messes together. Give us a chance.”

She brought dishes into the kitchen and smiled at him before leaving again. Stan joined him and volunteered to dry.

“Is that your car outside – the Impala?”

“Yeah, it was my dad's.” It was Dean’s, he thinks.

“Guy had good taste ... for a jarhead.”

Sam wanted to scream. He dug his thumb into the palm of his hand. _This is real. I’m real. Believe me._

Stan was right. This was a dream world.

That’s the night they found out that Don was alive. That’s when it all began to fall apart.

“Look, it can be nice living in a dream world,” he’d later tell Fred Jones. “It can be great. I know that. And you can hide, and you can pretend ... all the crap out there doesn't exist, but you can't do it forever because... eventually, whatever it is you're running from – it'll find you. It'll come along, and it'll punch you in the gut. And then... then you got to wake up, because if you don't, then trying to keep that dream alive will destroy you! It'll destroy everything!”

But he was stupid and scared. He had lied to himself and tried to pretend that that maybe he was what was best for Amelia. That they were something more than they were – messes together. Even after Dean came back, he’d clung to the shredded dream. Maybe she did too because after that cruel, prank text of Dean’s that caused him to run back to Kermit, she’d come looking for him. She’d put words in his mouth and nearly drawn him back into the dream world. He was so hurt by Dean’s secrets and accusations, so wrapped up in his own guilt that he’d let her pull him back into her embrace. He was so hurt and so torn up inside and confused.

“Are you saying you want me to leave?” he had asked.

“I'm telling you that if you stay, against everything I believe in, I would be with you,” she said. “But if you leave ... don't come back. I can't have you with one foot in my life and one foot out there doing ... whatever it is you do ... that life of yours I have no idea about.”

“You don't want to know about it. Believe me,” he said. “It's a big step.”

“For me or you?” she asked.

“Both,” he said, and he couldn’t help but think of Dean. Could he really walk away from his brother? His life? Maybe Dean would be better off without him. He always let Dean down. He always failed him. Not looking for him was just more of the same. Hell, Dean said it himself, Benny, a vampire had been more of a brother to him than Sam had been. And Amelia … He thought of Lisa and Ben. “I... need to think about this,” he said. “You need to think about this. Words will never cover what you mean to me – what you'll always mean to me, but we should ...”

“Think about this,” she said. “Okay. How about two days from now, around 7:30? I'll be off work then. One of us will be here, and we'll know. Neither of us will be here ... and we'll know. Or both of us will be here ... and we'll know.”

He could do it, couldn’t he, just walk away from the fighting and the fear and guilt? It seemed so appealing to run away again. He didn’t want to face Dean’s disappointment and anger anymore. Much as they might love each other, they weren’t good for one another. There was just too much water under the bridge. Dean couldn’t let go of Sam’s failures, and why should he? Sam had done nothing but cause his brother grief. From not dragging Dean off to Stanford with him to failing to save him from the demon deal to not listening to him about Ruby to letting him die at Sucrocorp, Sam had been more than Dean’s weak spot, he’d been his downfall.

Oddly enough, it had been Dean who had made the decision for him.

“You know what, man? I got this. You go,” Dean said when they got back to the cabin after Castiel’s disappearance.

Sam was stunned. “What?”

“Don't you have a girl to get back to?” Dean asked.

Sam wondered for a split second if Dean was blowing smoke up his ass, but he wasn’t. He was finally cutting Sam loose. He didn’t need him. He’d finally realized that Sam was his albatross. “Yeah. I guess I do. Um ... since when are you on the Amelia bandwagon?”

“I don't know. I'm just tired of all the fighting.” He grabbed a beer from the fridge. “And, you know, maybe I'm a little bit jealous. I could never separate myself from the job like you could. Hell, maybe it's time for at least one of us to be happy.”

Dean seemed sincere, but then he was the best liar in the world. Sam tried to play it off, keep it light, but something in his gut said it was wrong. “What, you being such a big hugger and all?” Well, he could lie just as well as Dean. “She does make me happy, and she could be waiting for me if I went back. I'd be a very lucky man if she was. But now ... with everything staring down at us, with all that's left to be done... I don't know.”

“Huh,” Dean said. He took drink of beer.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed because this wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted Dean as much as ever. That had never waned, not for a moment.

“Well, I do know this – whatever you decide, decide. Both feet in or both feet out. Anything in between is what gets you dead,” Dean said.

It was weird how Dean’s words echoed Amelia’s. “Yeah, I keep hearing that,” he said. “I'm gonna ... take a walk. Clear my head.”

Just as he had all those years ago in Burkittsville, Dean cut him loose and gave him the choice. That was all it had ever taken, and he went running back. As he walked away from the cabin, he had the urge to turn around and let it all come gushing out, how sorry he was, how he’d do better, how he wouldn’t let Dean down again, but those were just words. Instead, he walked and he planned. He _wouldn’t_ let Dean down again. He owed him that much. He’d make it all up to Dean no matter what it cost him.

 

  
He’d failed again. That was the first thing Sam thought as he drifted into consciousness. He wasn’t sure where he was at first. Curled comfortably on his side, he was peaceful. It was quiet and warm. He opened his eyes and the lamp shone down on a photo of his mom. He was in Dean’s bed. Why was he in Dean’s bed?

“Hey, Sammy,” Dean murmured as he sat on the edge of the bed. The familiar voice was like whiskey and honey. His palm rested on Sam’s forehead. “Still feel kinda warm.”

“There’s these things called thermometers, you know?” Sam’s throat was dry, voice raspy.

“Smart ass,” Dean said. “Here, sit up.” Dean helped him slide up to lean against the headboard and handed him a glass of water from the night table. The water was so cool and soothing to his throat that the sip became a gulp. Dean reached for the glass. “Not too fast. You’ll make yourself sick.” He set the glass back down.

“How long has it been?” Sam asked.

Dean’s lips pursed for a moment. Sam knew the expression. It was one of Dean’s tells. He was debating how much of the truth say.

“Dean.”

“Almost a week,” Dean said quietly.

“A week?” Sam echoed. He couldn’t imagine how worried Dean must have been. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. “For what, Sammy? For being sick? For almost killing yourself trying to close the gates of hell, so I wouldn’t be disappointed in you? That’s what you’re sorry for?” Dean sounded angry, but Sam knew better.

“Well … no. I just, I’m sorry you worried.”

Dean smiled but his eyes were shining wetly. “You were here, and I was determined to get you well. It’s not like …” He took a deep breath. “When you jumped in the pit, I … I went to Lisa because I promised you I would. I didn’t understand it, why you did it, that crap about me having a life, but that wasn’t really why you made me promise, was it?”

Sam shook his head. “No.”

Dean nodded. “I understand the thing with Amelia. I do. It’s okay, Sammy.”

“Yeah?” His eyes stung, and his chest ached.

Dean didn’t say anything. He just moved forward and pulled Sam into his arms. He held on like he’d never let Sam go, and that was the best feeling in the world. He’d never felt safer or more loved than he did in Dean’s arms. Every single time, it seemed worth it. For the first time in over a year, Dean pressed a kiss to his temple. Sam felt the last of the tension slip away.

Finally, Dean held him at arm’s length. “You think you could eat something?” he asked.

He wasn’t sure. “Yeah.”

“Good,” Dean said. “Cause we have to get you back on your feet. We’ve got this angel mess to clean up.” He rose. “Why’s it always up to you and me to fix everything?”

Sam pulled a smile “Maybe it’s because we’re awesome.”

Dean grinned. “You think so? We are awesome, aren’t we?” He patted Sam’s leg under the blanket. “I’ll rustle you up some soup or something.”

Sam let Dean get as far as the door. “Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“Why am I in your bed?” Sam asked.

Dean’s brow furrowed. “Cause that’s where you belong, right?”

Sam’s throat was so tight he could barely speak, but he nodded. “Yeah, right.”

Dean grinned again. “Be right back.”

Sam burrowed down in the covers and breathed in the familiar scent of his brother. This was where he belonged.

~~~

Dean stopped at the doorway with the tray in his hands. Sam had slipped back down under the covers. The blanket was scrunched up in his hands beneath his chin. He was asleep again, but his color looked more natural. Maybe the shadows under his eyes weren’t quite as dark. Dean knew it was probably wishful thinking.

He sat the tray on the table beside the bed. He bent over his brother and brushed the hair from his cheek with his fingertips. Sam’s eyes fluttered open.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty,” Dean said with a smirk.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Did you kiss me?” he asked as he sat up.

“Shut up.” Dean sat on the edge of the bed and lifted the tray from the table to Sam’s lap. There was a bowl of soup, a grilled cheese cut in quarters, and a glass of orange juice.

Sam smiled. “Wow, chicken and stars,” he said. “I haven’t had that since ...” He shook his head.

Dean shrugged. “You liked it when we were kids.”

“Yeah,” Sam said. “You used to make it when I had a cold.” He blew on the spoonful of soup.

“You know, it tastes just like chicken and noodles,” Dean said.

Sam laughed. “Of course, it does,” Sam said, “but we didn’t have it all the time.” Sam picked up a wedge of grilled cheese and took a bite.

“Yeah, not every store carries it.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“Is it good?” Dean asked.

“Yeah, but ... I mean, thanks for, you know, everything.” He blinked and focused on his soup.

Dean bit his lip and watched his brother eat a moment. “You know, Sammy, I realized sitting here the past few days that I’m a lot more like Dad than I would like.”

Sam looked up, sharp and serious. “Dad did the best he could, Dean, and so have you,” Sam said.

“Yeah, maybe so, but that doesn’t mean that we didn’t make mistakes,” Dean said. “Dad was hard on me. You know that. He was quick to tell me when I screwed up and he never let me forget it.”

“He was proud of you too,” Sam said.

Dean nodded. “And I’m proud of you,” he said, “but I don’t say it.”

“Dean ...”

“No, Sam, what you said to me at the chapel? There’s no way you could think that if I weren’t failing to let you know that there is no one, not Benny, not Cas, no one that I trust more, that I have faith has got my back more than you,” Dean said. “If you didn’t look for me, Sammy, I know it’s because you couldn’t. You thought I was dead, right?”

Sam nodded, and tears tipped over the edge of eyes eyes and slid down his cheeks.

Dean’s throat was tight, his voice barely above a whisper. “You kept yourself alive,” he said. “If you hadn’t, I ...” His breath hitched in his throat.

Sam sniffed and picked up his juice. He took a long drink.

Dean cleared his throat. “You gonna eat that?” He pointed at the two wedges of sandwich left on Sam’s plate.

“No, go ahead,” Sam replied. “I’m full.”

Dean took a bite of grilled cheese. “Yeah, you haven’t eaten much the past few months,” Dean said. “We need to get some meat back on those bones. I’ll make burgers and mac and cheese tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

“You done?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Sam said. Dean picked up the tray and stood. “Maybe some beanie weenies,” Sam added.

Dean’s eyebrows shot up. “Really? You haven’t eaten that since you were twelve.”

Sam shrugged. “Comfort food, you know.”

“Yeah.” Dean started for the door and then swung around. “Tuna and noodles.”

 “With canned mushrooms and peas?”

“Yep, Velveeta and mushroom soup.”

“Sounds good.” Sam yawned. “Hey, what time is it?”

“Almost nine.”

“You coming back?”

Dean frowned a little. “I was going to let you get some sleep.”

“Don’t you need to sleep too?”

“Sam ...”

“It’s your bed ... our bed.”

A small smile pulled at Dean’s mouth. “I’ll just go put this stuff in the kitchen, okay?”

“Okay.” Sam wriggled deeper under the covers.

“But, Sammy, don’t force yourself to stay awake, okay?”

“Okay, but don’t dawdle.”

Dean scoffed. “Dawdle.”

He wiped down the counter and stove and rinsed the dishes and left them in the sink. He didn’t usually leave dirty dishes in the sink. He liked to keep the kitchen clean, but he could wait till morning to wash up. There was no need to worry about roaches or ants. He looked around the kitchen with the hint of a smile before turning the light out.

He spent a few moments in the bathroom brushing his teeth before heading to the bedroom. Sam was half on his side, arm outstretched toward the empty side of the bed.

“ ‘night, Mom,” Dean whispered as he turned off the lamp. He eased under the covers beside his brother who rolled toward him without a word. Arms and hands and legs slipped into familiar positions, and somehow, big as he was, Sam nestled his head under Dean’s chin.

“We’re good now, right, Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy, we’re awesome,” he said. “No more secrets or lies, okay?”

Sam nodded and yawned. “Mm-hmm, if we go down, we go down together.”

“Absolutely,” Dean said. “You and me, Sammy.” He ran his fingers through Sam’s hair. Tomorrow he’d have to wrestle his gigantor little brother into the shower, but for now even the funk was welcome.

They’d get Sammy back on his feet, back to fighting weight, and then they’d tackle the new world that Metatron had created. Damned angels. Pains in his ass. And Crowley. They’d have to deal with him too.

Dean sighed. He could do this. _They_ could do this. Together.

 

_To be continued on The CW._


End file.
